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On the following Tuesday I was out with my dog and gun, in pursuit of such game as I could find within the territory of Linden-Car; but finding none at all, I turned my arms against the hawks and carrion crows, whose depredations, as I suspected, had deprived me of better prey.
Near the top of this hill, about two miles from Linden-Car, stood Wildfell Hall, a superannuated mansion of the Elizabethan era, built of dark grey stone, venerable and picturesque to look at, but doubtless, cold and gloomy enough to inhabit, with its thick stone mullions and little latticed panes, its time-eaten air-holes, and its too lonely, too unsheltered situation,—only shielded from the war of wind and weather by a group of Scotch firs, themselves half blighted with storms, and looking as stern and gloomy as the Hall itself.
Graham called at Linden-Car, contrary to the expectation of Rose, who entertained an idea that the mysterious occupant of Wildfell Hall would wholly disregard the common observances of civilized life,—in which opinion she was supported by the Wilsons, who testified that neither their call nor the Millwards’ had been returned as yet.
‘Shall I find Rose at home, do you think?’ said she, as we closed the garden gate, and set our faces towards Linden-Car. ‘I believe so.’ ‘I trust I shall, for I’ve a little bit of news for her—if you haven’t forestalled me.’ ‘Yes: do you know what Mr. Lawrence is gone for?’ She looked up anxiously for my reply. ‘Is he gone?’ said I; and her face brightened.
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